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Steve Bennett
November Song
 
 
 

Sometimes I find myself yearning for the silence of winter, for the feeling that the world and I are inaccessible and remote from each other. There is a fleeting barrier on some snowy midnights when nothing can reach into me - the door is shut fast, and no one wishes to come in and no one wishes to go out. All of Creation sleeps, dreaming in drifts, drifting in and out of dreams. Even the sound of my own heartbeat is muffled, as if it too were listening to the quiet November Song.

I am living in the South now, with a magnolia right outside my window, and winter is just a memory of a memory. I guess I will try this life for a while, but someday I think I will look out this window again, on a landscape of eternal ice. And instead of putting more wood on the fire, I will open the door at last and enter that world, and I hope never to return. (SB)